A Continuing End
by Craeft
Summary: The war has been unleashed and finds itself on Thylandrill's doorstep. The Elves must put aside their desire of pacifism and charge into the battle. The alliance must be rebuilt.
1. Lighting the Path

**C H A P T E R   I**

**_Lighting the Path_**

****

In a word, shortness was her muse.  As she stood in the misty doorway throwing pebbles into the wind, her hair flourished brilliantly in the moon's eclipse; the red's reflection dancing off the hazelnut browns of her natural tresses and twinkling in the modeled waves as they lapped against the shore.  The sky was a deep crimson, almost black with clouds of purples and mauves.  In the shadows of her mind, Kira found time slipping through the portals of change while the fireflies danced on the horizon.  Occasionally, she would find herself reaching out to touch one, but they were always far beyond her grasp.  She longed to hold the magnificent beauty of pure light in her hands and ward off the darkness that surrounded her every move.  The shroud of ambivalence had finally begun to whisk itself away into the twilight and the illusions of immobility began their ascent into the scarlet abyss of remembrance.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

            Followers of Baelin weren't considered the type to dance merrily through the forests of happiness; well, not unless it was a burning heap of charred remains filling the air with the stench of cooked flesh on a clear star-lit night.  This was apparent from the soft orange glow moving slowly through the woods in the distance.  

            It had been 3 years since the war had broken out; some fighting in the name of Baelin for the sake of glory and expansion and self-iniquitous pride, others for Bevan and the sake of glory, protection, honour, and the simple fact that they are not keen on dying quite as of yet.  It was never supposed to come this far south, yet the reflection of the water to the east proved the inevitable— war was coming to Thylandrill through the northern wood.  There was no way around it.  And this, of course, would complicate the issue even more.  There was one side fighting for Baelin, one for Bevan, and if the elves were forced to get involved, they would be fighting for the very ground upon which they stood.  

            Einar stepped into the night and gazed sullenly at the distance.  The time for him to prove his leadership had come at last, but this was a decision he did not want to make.

            "They're coming this way, Mordecai." He said emotionless.

            "Yes.  They are.  The fires are burning brighter each night.  Even the moon has turned red from them.  The ways of men are not our ways, Einar.  This won't end well."

            "It will end how it will end, Mordecai.  There is no way about that.  And the ways of men have always been far from the shoulders of elves.  Not out of distance, but merely out of sight.  Remember though, Mordecai, men have fought for us in the past, although remaining at a distance.  From within the ancient halls, we have survived for millennia; without concern over the coming of such a foul disease of life such as war—death.  But now we must go into those halls for a different kind of protection.  We must arm ourselves and ready at the very footpaths our fathers had worn.  There will be no stopping it.  There will be sorrow.  There will be no other light but that of the glint of steel upon steel and of the glow of our very world burning around us.  But nonetheless, Mord—" he cut himself off briefly to turn to Mordecai and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder, "but nonetheless, there will be light.  These walls have protected our families and kept us safe for millennia.  And they will continue to do so no matter the reason behind it."

            There was a long silence while the lapping of the waves seemed to drown out the tension of foretold sorrow.  Mordecai pulled himself up and lifted his sword to the sky in salute to Einar.  

            "And to such an end would I follow you," he said "into the labyrinth of dreams would I knock my final arrow, be it that dreams be all we have left."  He knelt before Einar with his sword in front of him.  "With this blade shall I defend the kin of Thylandrill."

            Einar gently put a hand on Mordecai's head.  

            "Stand, Mordecai.  You know you need not kneel before me."  Mordecai remained kneeling, but looked up at Einar.  "We will wait until the moon returns to make the decision.  The fires are still two days off, providing they're not battling at a full run."  For the first time, Mordecai saw a small smile perch Einar's lips.  "Let us see what the moon has to show us.  Then we will know upon which path we stand.  Let's not panic the families.  Quietly gather the men and bring them to the circle.  We will meet there immediately."

            "Of course.  We will return shortly."  

            There was a brief pause while they stared into each other's eyes, one feeding pride and anxiety off the other and both trying to read into each other's true feelings toward the situation, but to no avail.  After this moment of eternal silence, Mordecai walked off into the Great Hall which was made of incredibly ornate bas reliefs etched in silvery mythril.  This night, however, the silver had lost its sheen to the reflection of the moon.  The moon had lost its shine to the need of the mithril.  And no one was sure which was going to give first.  

            Einar slowly walked his way up the beach contemplating the questions before him.  "Should we immediately go to war and risk what surely would be hundreds of premature deaths?  Or should we wait and see if the fires turn west or stop altogether?  If we wait, we could be too late and lose more than if we had jumped into the fires of hell itself.  If we plunge into the fiery depths of war, we could lose more than if we had waited."  This was going to be a long night.  Einar drank from his water-skin.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

            Thorin had just picked himself up off the ground as the next blow sent him hurdling toward the inferno, his black hair blocking his vision.  All he could hear were the screams of orders being barked from everywhere to anyone that would listen.  At least the last blow drove him far enough away that he could stand up, dust himself off and catch his breath before charging head-long back into the battle.  He was pretty beaten.  He had a nice gash above his right eye which his hair was soaking up and then dripping into his already bloodshot grey eyes quite effectively.  There was a cut somewhere on his chest, but he couldn't feel it, which is probably for the better since it was more of a gorge that a cut, revealing bone and shrapnel.  Finally, he had a piercing pain shooting through his left shoulder which was probably caused by the arrow now protruding steadily from it.  But, after a couple deep, painful breaths, Thorin charged on.  He suddenly heard a scream, "Behind you!"  As he turned around, there was yet another pummel to the skull.  "This is not my day." was the last thing he remembered thinking as the scarlet scene dissolved into a serene black.  

            Færlin, a slightly medium sized man but built like a cave troll with long red hair and goatee, however, was fairing a bit better than his brother; his armour still silver, his blade crimson and fluid, his mount still beneath him.  With every swing of his sword came the bellow "To the bone yard!" as he lopped off another head.  He really did enjoy his work.  Færlin was that person who isn't happy unless he's doing some heroic deed in the name of "king and country and above all, Bevan."  The little things bored him.  So, as soon as it was announced that Rythien was going to war, he was the first to sign up.  And when others backed out of the war when they found out they were fighting the Bælinites, Færlin was the first to step forward as captain.  And now that he had fought for months, traveled hundreds of miles, and eaten the flesh of his enemies when there was no other food, Færlin felt even more justified in his actions.   He knew that Thylandrill was just a couple days south and although would appreciate their assistance, felt it necessary to try to diverge the battle elsewhere.  He ordered the troops to swing around to the south side of the conflicting army and push them northwest toward the mountains of Evlar.  

            There were, however, so few of the troops left and the Bælinian army was overwhelming their forces.  Not to mention the fact that the Bælinites didn't much care what happened to their own and therefore would march right over them to proceed onward if they had to.  They had to be the only army in existence who held a sword in their right hands and torches in their left.  They would kill and immediately burn.  And the fires were always large.  

            The clash of steel on steel was deafening.  Teeth bared, grunts and moans underlying the orchestra of strikes, and the reflection of the moon off the pools of fluids now lying upon the ground proved grim for Bevan warriors.  But they knew that if they didn't die in battle, they would die from the Bælinites in torture.  This was their only chance of survival and their only chance at protecting their families now so far away.  

            Færlin looked down to see his brother lying unconscious.  He immediately dismounted, lifted his brother to the saddle and struck the horse, sending it south where he knew Thorin could receive some form of care.  As he turned around, an opposing warrior who stood about six feet tall (a mere three inches taller than Færlin) with dark black leather armour and only his front teeth smiled viciously at Færlin, then swung at him with his torch.  This was just what Færlin needed to lift his sword into the man's gut pouring forth all now unattached vital organs.  The man's smile faded.  

            Færlin's troops eventually managed to swing around to the south side of the opposing army and began slowly pushing them northwest.  Færlin knew that if they could just reach the mountains, the dwarves would be more than willing to help out.  He ran into the battle lopping off as many heads and reciting his head-chopping mantra with just about every swing.  The only thing left to do now was… survive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	2. Revelation of Hope

_AUTHOR'S NOTE:     Well all, here is chapter two… finally.  Sorry it took me so long.  Funny thing about college is that they expect you to do THEIR work on top of more important things… like writing.  But alas, here it is.  Enjoy and feel free to drop me a review.  I would like to thank Eirecat for going over the document and making sure that I didn't use the original name of Piran for the dwarf… as that name apparently hangs out in Lord of the Rings.  Tolkien took all the cool names already.  Anyway, on to the chapter, shall we?_

_* * * * * * * * * * * * *_

**C H A P T E R   II**

**_Revelation of Hope_**

****

            The moon started to reveal itself as Einar watched the crimson reflection on the water gradually turn to silver.  He stood there with his kin behind him.  He, like they, awaited an answer.  The moon began glinting its rays off the near luminescence of Einar's braided hair while he stared up at it in hesitation.  He could feel the men behind him grow slightly restless with every moment he waited.  However, his decision was final… and it was already made.  Now, he had a new decision to make—whom of them were to travel to their deaths.

            "They await your command, Einar.  They grow anxious." Mordecai stepped to him.  

            "To arms." Einar responded softly and surely, yet Mordecai could hear the hesitation in his voice.  As Einar sipped from his water skin still gazing at the moon, Mordecai turned to give the orders.  

            "ALL MEN TO A—"  

            Einar turned and interrupted him passionately, "You are men of honour.  Of strength.  Your blood, pure.  You stand before me not as my army but as Thylandrill's army and my friends.  Because of this, I place before you a challenge.  It is a challenge that will follow through the stories of time.  It is a challenge your children will weep upon when hearing of your heroism.  It is a challenge that will, in the end bring back two separate entities as one, allowing for truth to be heard from the very lips and minds of the young for generations to follow.  You stand here in allegiance not to me, but to your families."  The words seemed to be pouring into him as the moon gradually grew in intensity, and now dancing upon the hair and tunics of each warrior.  "Your hearts, your bodies, your armour and your weapons are all one power glistening brilliantly in the shallows of Elvin kind."  His eyes grew more severe as he spoke.  "The trees that harbour us, the lands we stand upon, the hearts of our loved ones, the homes of those we have promised to protect are all in peril.  The vows you have made are about to be tested.  We arm ourselves not for the sake of war, but for the sake of peace.  Tonight, we arm ourselves together, for as tonight I am not your captain.  I am not your leader.  I am your comrade.  We fight together.  When you have fear and unknowing, when you have lost sight of the battle, listen for the sounds of war within the hearts of knowing.  Listen for the cries of children yet unseen."  He raised one hand in the air and continued with absolute conviction, "And go we now to the Great Hall and arm ourselves.  For tonight, we have a call to battle.  And tomorrow, we have a journey to Peace!"

            The group of elves was slightly confused by the outpour of sentiment, for they had never quite seen or heard such a speech other than by that of men, but they felt a certain amount of pride well up in them to the point of purgation.  Finally with a simultaneous rumble, almost in tune with the waves that now roared upon the shore, and as the light of the moon seemed to shimmer by the very frequency of their voices, they bellowed a hearty, "TO ARRRRMS!" and immediately retreated to the Great Hall.  Einar and Mordecai followed behind.

            "Nice speech, Einar." stated Mordecai reassuringly.

            "These are sad times, Mordecai.  These are trying times and are soon to be even more so.  They need preparation, a luxury for which we have no time.  The next best thing is confidence."

            "I was referring to the method of the speech.  It was all rather" he paused briefly and could see a sudden change in Einar's eyes.  What he wanted to say was that it was all rather like the speeches of Men.  It held a quality he had heard only from the captains of human armies just before they were to surely march into their deaths.  But he cut it short, "you don't think we're coming back, do you?"

            "No Mordecai.  I don't think we ever truly leave."

            They walked silently the remainder of the distance to the Great Hall where they walked into elves admiring the ancestral remnants of wars past and allegiances now crumbled.  There were others fitting themselves into mithril and green and purple robes and tunics and donning bows and quivers full of arrows.  These were obviously the scouts who would depart this very evening.  And there was a group of four in very rich clothing carrying torches outside to light the ceremonial fire, calling the women and children to meet perhaps one last time.  Normally, these four would remain behind to keep the fire's beacon lit; but not this time.

            After making sure everything was in order, the men were at their ready, and the water skins had been filled and rations prepared, Einar walked outside to watch the moon finish its brilliant ascent to full sphere.  He found himself gazing away from the moon and more toward the north, however… to the fires.  The orange glow on the horizon left an ominous chill in his spine that he could not shake and from which he could not turn away.  Although the world around him was silent, save for the crackling of the ceremonial fire now at full pyre, he could hear the sounds of battle, the swords, the screams, the sounds different weapons make as they strike living flesh.  He considered his decision and hoped it was the right one.  He knew many would not return.  In fact, he estimated those numbers to be higher than those who would.  He felt the soft, familiar touch of a hand on his shoulder.  

            "These men would follow you into that sea, if you wanted.  They trust you.  They love you."

            He continued to watch the fires.  "It is not love that sends us to those fires, Lorena.  And they know that too.  It is hate that calls us there."

            "Hate is the reason you go, but it is love that calls you.  Love for your families and kin.  Love for the trees and songs they hold.  And it is love that will call you back home."

            Einar turned to her slowly and brushed the hair from her face, "Love is what makes me not want to leave."  After a moment of silence as he looked deeply into her eyes, noticing the pride and yet the fear as well they held within them, he continued, "You always give me hope, Lorena; something to live for and so much to die for."

            "You have nothing if you've not the hope of victory."  She looked into his eyes for a moment, brushed her hand gently upon his cheek, smiled softly, and then returned to the ceremonial fire, leaving him to watch her thoughts and words dance on the backs of his eyes.  After she dissolved into silhouette, backlit from the fire, he turned back toward the northern fires and watched them for a brief while.  There was an instantaneous clash in his head, a whisper whose volume was louder than the very thoughts his own mind could capture.  He wasn't sure what it was, but something made him run excitedly into the Great Hall.  

            As he charged in, he didn't take a moment to find his target of commands.  "Iomar, fit me with that bow.  Aleron, hand to me that mithril.  Mordecai, take two men and get the scouts and myself horses.  We ride together.  Iomar, bring with you two torches, many lengths of rope, and pack with you at least 10 daggers.  Aleron, bring with you jugs of sea water, as many as you can carry."  Aleron started off to the sea at a hurried pace when Einar called after him, "And something to dig with."  He was obviously very excited and in a hurry.  He called out, "Zuril!  ZURIL!"  A large elf (well, large for an elf) appeared.  Zuril stood about 5-foot, 7-inches,  and what would appear to be about 200 pounds, but you can never really tell these things with elves.  He was one of the melee fighters you find on the front lines of combat.  "Zuril," continued Einar, "you ride with us tonight.  Gather as many large rocks as you and your horse can carry but be careful not to overburden her.  What we lack while in travel, we can pick up once we're there."  Einar frantically finished putting on his armour and battle garb and hurried out to meet Mordecai with the horses.  The rest of the hall watched in wonder at what Einar was up to while Iomar, and Zuril followed at Einar's hurried pace.  

            The three were outside at about the time Mordecai showed up with the horses.  Mordecai looked rather perplexed at Einar's intensity of spirit.  He had never seen him so anxious.  

            "What hurries you, Einar?" he asked.  

            "Time Mordecai.  Time and hope.  You two, go gather the materials requested and meet me in the shadows of the woods.  Inform Aleron where to meet.  There we will prepare for what could possibly be the greatest alliance this world has ever seen."  With that, he jumped up on his horse and followed north at full gallop.  The rest of his quartet, sans archer, stood there dumbfounded for a moment and then leapt into action.  They had no idea what he was planning, but it sure was interesting.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

            Kira's heart pounded as she gazed over the sea to the lands beyond, the arriving ominous flames approaching just off the horizon to the north.  She was barely a child, at best, though she had lived centuries beyond men.  As the moon opened its silvery watch upon her brow and glistened brilliantly upon the water, inspiration danced upon her thoughts.  She never was one to take the time to think things through.  Spontaneity was the only way she could keep life interesting.  Dullness did not comfort Kira; and this was one of those moments.  Without hesitation (or thought of one), she ran toward the stables to affix reins and ropes and provisions to Fleda.  

            Fleda was an incredible steed whose coat shone like mercury in the tint of the moon's light and like fire in the sun.  Her eyes were as deep a green as the warmest tropical seas.  And upon her forehead was a black blaze that reached up over her poll and through her mane.  At her withers, it split into a "Y" and traveled down into her shoulders and through to her front hooves.  The rest of her coat was an almost glistening white that sparkled and danced as though an illusion had been cast upon the very seer of her beauty.  When Kira approached, Fleda gave her a little nuzzling welcome and curled her front lip up for a kiss.  Kira brought Fleda's head down to meet her and kissed her gently upon the forehead.

            "Wanna go for a ride?" she asked as she patted the horse's withers.  "There's a full moon, it's a warm night, we have food, and an eternity to find."

            With that, Kira finished fastening the necessary loops, straps, and winches to Fleda and leapt on her back.  Within a shot, they were out of the stables and on their way to adventure and honor.  Fleda didn't so much run as float upon the blades of grass and pebbles that were below her feet.  As they came to the shore, Kira pulled Fleda northward toward the orange fireflies sparkling up from the horizon.  She knew what they were; and where there is war, there is pain.  And Kira could not abide pain.  As they rode up the shore, Kira spotted a group of her kin and brought Fleda to a stop amidst the ramble.  There were warriors running hastily about, provisioning themselves and preparing for departure.  There were healers grabbing necessary potions and herbs and patiently packing them into sacks and satchels.  Up against the walls of the Great Hall was Mordecai, looking concerned, at best.  His gaze was fixed to the north.  Kira caught something in his gaze that concerned her.  

            "Some have already left." She thought.  "Father."

            Without realizing it, this thought led her over to Mordecai.

            "Mordecai." She said softly.

            Mordecai, as though being awoken abruptly from a horrible dream, leapt up straight.  "Kira!  What are you doing out here?" he asked quite sternly.  "You must go back inside."  He looked at Fleda for a moment and sighed.  "Kira."

            "Where is my father?"

            "Kira.  Why does Fleda look like a pack mule ready for a long journey?"

            "Where is my father, Mordecai?  Why do the horsemen ride?"

            "Kira, take Fleda back to the stables.  This is not a time for a joy ride.  Your father has gone forward with the scouts.  Please.  We need you to stay here and help the others should they need it."

            "So we're going?  Is that it?"

            "No, Kira.  WE are NOT going.  YOU are staying here."

            "Now Mordecai," said Kira sweetly, cutely, and patronizingly, and with some contempt, "you know I would never dream of riding out into that deep, dark, lonely forest alone.  I've no desire for such things, Mordie.  I prefer the quiet life.  I prefer the life of a warm bed and a hot meal.  The very idea of charging into unscrupulous peril sends shivers up my spine."

            Mordecai just blinked for a moment and then said, "Kira.  Ummm… come on down from Fleda."  Kira backed Fleda up a couple steps as Mordecai reached for the halter.  "Come now, Kira.  This isn't a game.  People are going to die up there.  It is no place for you.  And if what is up there should spread to the village here, we need someone with your abilities to help.  Please."

            "Because people are going to die up there," she said suddenly serious while backing up Fleda another step, "is exactly why it is my place to go.  And you know that, Mordie.  I will stay out of the way.  I promise.  But I will not stand idly by while my father could be in danger.  If he were to die while I was stuck here, I would… I would… there would be many unhappy people about."

            Mordecai, finally relenting said, "I'm not going to win this, am I?"

            "Nope." She said returning to her sweet naivety.

            "Fine.  But if anyone asks, you left on the west side of town, out of our sight.  If your father ever found out that I LET you go, I would be that unhappy people you spoke of."

            Kira stepped Fleda toward Mordecai and gave him a little kiss on the top of the head.  "Thank you." She said smiling.  She turned Fleda back to the north and rode off into the darkness.

            Mordecai called after her, "I'M ONLY DOING THIS BECAUSE I TRUST YOU!  REMEMBER THAT!"  and then continued under his breath, "not that it would matter anyway."  He continued on as he walked into the Great Hall to oversee the activities, "you'd just do what you wanted anyway; with or without my consent or input or advice or…" he trailed off.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

            Piran sat happily in the pub with two large mugs of ale, each almost as tall as him.  It was tradition for a dwarf to drink verily after the end of a long day's work in the mines; and before; and sometimes during.  In fact, the only thing water was good for was as a vehicle to the ale.  Piran looked about the subterranean tavern and began feeling a sense of loneliness and emptiness.  Everything about the place was per usual.  The torches high on the walls (well, high for dwarves, they actually sat about 5 feet off the ground), the loud and obnoxious hoots and hollers of his fellow patrons of this fine establishment, the cracked wooden tables obviously patched up from previous scuffles, and the entertainment which consisted of a beautiful dwarven lass standing about 4 feet tall with a beard that didn't quit.  Literally.  Her facial hair left an ancient wizard's prized beard to shame, yet something was different within Piran.  He had never really ventured far beyond the caves.  He was always too busy breaking rocks or drinking; no real purpose for leaving.  This started to eat him up inside as he sat there drinking himself into the ethereal.  Finally, a somewhat tall dwarf approached and introduced herself as Gammadims.  

            Gammadims was very clean for a dwarf.  Her beard was well groomed and her eyes sparkled as though they had seen many wondrous things, and as though Piran was one of these.  

            "Your heart longs for reprieve, Piran." she said softly.  "I've been sitting over there in the corner watching you and I saw your smile fade from celebration to eulogy in a matter of minutes.  What is it that troubles you, good dwarf?"

            Piran looked up and downed the remainder of his now fourth mug of ale, "I'm sorry.  Who are you?"

            "Hopefully a friend" she said touching his hand.

            Piran wasn't much in the mood for friends at this point.  He held a firm belief that friends let friends drink alone.  "Well then my loveliest of friends," he said while pulling his hand away slowly, "what troubles me is I have two hands and only one full mug of ale.  And to add to the aggravation, I've only one mouth.  Now then, if there is something you could do about either of those problems, you truly are a friend."

            Gammadims didn't hesitate to assist.  Her hands moved in a slight gesture, subtly manipulating the threads of time and space.  There was a very simple blue glow emanating from her fingertips while she spoke softly in some foreign tongue.  Piran had never encountered an actual mage before, but he was about to learn to not make requests of them, for they will be granted.  

            "There." She said.  "I think that worked beautifully."  She gave Piran a smile and sat back in her seat.  Piran, completely oblivious to what had just happened stared at his one mug.  

            "I(I) see(see) nothing(nothing)—" he stopped short.  His words came out in perfect thirds on the pentatonic scale.  "What(What) in(in) the(the) name(name) of(of) Loda?(Loda?)"  He stared into his mug allowing the ripples to finally come to a stop when he saw it.  

            "As you see," said Gammadims, "change is in the air.  Change is what you wanted is it not?"

            "Aye.(Aye.)  Change(Change) indeed(indeed)."  He had nothing.  He couldn't think of any witty retort as he sat there just staring at his reflection in amazement.  Finally, after an eternity of pause, "I(I) would(would) have(have) preferred(preferred) the(the) extra(extra) mug(mug)."  He looked up at Gamadims and smiled.  Well, one mouth smiled.  The other kind of hung limp on his chin.  "Now(now) then(then).  You(You) think(think) you(you) can(can) change(change) me(me) back(back)?" he said with final reverence.

            Gammadims made a single sweeping motion with her right hand literally erasing her art.  "Now that I have your undivided attention, may I continue?"

            "Oh.  By all means." Said Piran enthralled.

            "Good.  As I was saying, your heart longs for reprieve.  Why do you sit here and wish yourself away only to return to the mines in the morning?  There are many beautiful things outside of this life, and you seem to be aware of that, yet you never acted upon it.  Well, now's your chance."

            "I'm sorry?" said Piran confused.

            "Get off your ass and go." She finally said with blunt courtesy.

            "Go?  Just like that?  Get off my ass and go?  Nowhere to go."  He downed the final dregs of ale in his mug and waved to the barkeep who immediately filled another mug and brought it over.  Piran turned to the barkeep, "Better bring me a couple more.  It's gonna be a weird day."  He threw a gold piece on the counter and laid his head down.  

            Gammadims continued, "What I am about to tell you must be held in confidence.  We don't need a whole slew of testosterone induced dwarves ready for action, if you know what I mean."

            Piran immediately perked up lifting his drunken head at such a speed as to throw him backwards out of his chair.  The entire tavern burst out into a fit of laughter.  Piran stood up, brushed himself off and climbed back into the chair.  Finally, he said almost whispering and with absolute curious excitement, "Action?  What kind of action?"

            "Glory.  Honor.  Fighting.  And riches well beyond the reach of your pick-axe."

            Piran's eyes twinkled for a moment and a smile broadened across his face.  "Where do I sign up?"  He gulped an entire mug of ale and smiled broadly at Gammadims.

            Gammadims sat back and slumped a bit, took a drink of her ale and smiled at Piran. Piran's world faded out around him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	3. Words of Wisdom

_Well all… here it is.  The long awaited chapter 3.  Wow.  Sorry it took so long.  But I was sucked into many things.  Between school, searching for employment, and my new addiction (Star Wars Galaxies), I almost had forgotten myself.  I hope you enjoy this next chapter.  There is a little less exposition in this chapter and I am getting to the point where the story can actually begin.  Just like in a real campaign, the hardest part is getting the key characters together in such a way that is interesting and entertaining, but fulfilling to the storyline.  I would like to thank my beta tester, Eirecat for checking this over for me.  Some day, I hope to write as well as her.  And my second beta tester, LaughingWolf, the best damned DM I know.  Please leave me a review.  Enjoy.  _

_"I know not with what weapons world war III will be fought but, world war IV will be fought with stick and stones." -Albert Einstein___

**C H A P T E R   III**

**_Words of Wisdom_**

            With Einar on her back, Diahann galloped lightly through the forest to the North.  Her silvery-grey coat accented the moon's light as it shone through the trees.  Diahann showed no difficulty as she dodged the forest trees and parried the low hanging branches that came suddenly into her view.  Her eyes were filled with determination, superceded only by the intensity of her breath.  Einar was riding low on her back when he caught the glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.  Diahann, without command, or at least any command that could be heard or seen in the mundane realm, came to an almost sudden stop.  Einar jumped down, nocked an arrow, and calmly and steadily aimed at the source of the movement.  After a few moments, Einar noticed the man slumped, bloody and unconscious, on the horse's back.  He immediately replaced his arrow to it's quiver and dropped the bow to the ground, sparing no second to assist.  When Einar approached, the horse came to a stop, allowing him access to the man's limp body.

            "Are you conscious?" asked Einar, expecting there to be no response.  Instead, the man lifted his head very slightly and let out a half conscious grunt to signify his understanding.  "I will get you help."  continued Einar.  "Try to stay awake.  Can you speak?"  The man let out a weak and subtle "yes" and gathered enough strength to look at Einar for the first time.  This was the first time he had ever seen elvenkind, and wasn't sure if it were an angel or a devil, but at this point, he didn't much care either.  He reached out a friendly hand and touched Einar's ears and cheek and allowed himself a soft smile before he realized that gravity was still a constant and his arm fell full force pulling him off the horse.  Einar whispered some incoherent syllables into the horse's ear and the horse knelt down beside Thorin.  Einar lifted Thorin up onto the horse's back.  "What is your name?"

            "Thorin." He replied weakly.  "The fires—the battle is… " he trailed off and then continued, "my brother is still up there.  Please—find him.  Name—Færlin."

            "I will find him Thorin.  You must heal.  Hold onto your horse's neck and stay awake.  I will guide you to aid.  When you get there, tell them that Einar said to help you."  Einar's words seemed to dance off his tongue in such a beautiful way, that Thorin smiled at their grace and sincerity.  With that, he whispered into the horse's ear again.  The horse rose and galloped toward Thylandrill. 

            Einar returned to Diahann and picked up his bow.  The fires were about one day away now.  Either he had ridden at full gallop all this way, or the fires were getting closer.  Either way, it was time to rest before it was too late.  He knew that they would not be able to rest after much longer.  Einar set up a camp and looked up at the sky.  The smoke had nearly dominated the entire expanse and the glow was rapidly becoming more ominous.  He would wait here for the others to arrive.

            Piran's eyes opened to nothing more than blurry shapes and colored shadows.  His head fell face first onto the floor.

            "Aye.  What the hell 'ave I gotten mese'f into?" he asked himself defiantly.  "With all the possibilities of adventure in this world, I had ta pick mine based on the size of her beard."  He clutched his head as one of the colored shadows spoke in an all too familiar voice.

            "Well, it's good to see you're a man of principle."

            "Gammadimms."

            "And no other." She replied gracefully bowing.  At least he thought she was bowing.  She could have been picking up a dagger getting ready to skewer him for all he knew, or even cared at this point.  "Welcome to the world of the conscious."

            "I wouldn't put me there just yet." He said still clutching his head.  "At least I know it wasn't a dream."

            Gammadimms chuckled.  "A dream?" she said softly,  "Hardly a dream.  There's no such thing as dreams.  Only alternate realities."

            "Well, would ya mind alterin' my reality a bit?  It's a little unclear."  He thought about it a moment.  "on second thought, I remember the last time I asked for your help.  You gave it to me."

            She chuckled at the memory and then responded somewhat patronizingly, "I don't know.  I rather like seeing you writhe on the floor at my feet.  It's nice to finally get the respect so deserved a sorceress such as myself."

            Piran let out a slight half moan, half grunt, three quarters sigh, and one-hundred percent curse, and finally submitted to the fact that he was going to have to wear this one off.

            "Besides," continued Gammadimms, "I need to make sure you're not going to depart while I speak with you about the events forthcoming."

            "Please, lady.  If you're not gonna he'p me with me achin' brain, then at least talk in a language I can understand.  Preferably with less syllables and more meaning.  And another thing, I'm not goin anywhere until I know what's goin on anyway.    

            "Very well."  She said with a certain confidence that dictated her awareness that she did, indeed, hold the upper hand.  She pulled out a flask of reddish liquid and handed it to Piran.  "Drink this if it will stop you're whining."  She studied him for a moment as he moved with a sluggish, painful quality.  "You're not very strong for a dwarf, are you?"

            "Strong?" exclaimed Piran as he downed the liquid.  "Wait til this takes effect, then I'll show you strong."  There was a forcefulness in his voice declaring his pride had been touched a bit.

            "Settle down, little dwarf.  First, I mean no offense.  Second, You wouldn't get one swing in before I had you writhing at my feet."  Then she added, merely for punctuation, "again."

            Piran's head started to clear and he sat on the bed that he had apparently missed the night before.  Gammadimms was as beautiful as he had thought.  But there was something different, as though she were now in complete control of him.  The sparkle that he remembered in her eyes was still there, but it was more of a force of will than a spark of admiration.  Her very presence was somewhat uneasy, but comfortable at the same time.  He felt safe with her, as long as he listened to what she had to say.  It wasn't as though she would harm him necessarily, but that he would have one less very good friend whom of which had the power to turn the universe inside out if the situation called for it.

            "There is nothing to worry about." She said.  "I am not here to cause you any harm.  I merely need your help.  The whole of the world needs your help."

            "But why me?  I am a miner.  Unless the world needs some 'oles dug in 'er, I don't see 'ow I can 'elp."

            "You are more than a miner, Piran."  Her eyes suddenly became softer.  "Why else would I have sought you out alone?  I wasn't in that tavern looking for any random soul to fill this role.  I was in that tavern because you were there."

            There was a pause while Piran thought about her words.  His thoughts began their journey at the fine quality of the ale, then meandered their way to the possibility of Gammadimms' looking for a suitable mate, and then finally rested on the possible demise of the entire universe and all elements thereof in one final devastating explosion that would last for an eternity.  The latter thought was none too flattering, so he dismissed it with a shrug and the possibility that he may merely be the certain person, or criteria thereof, that this certain, rather attractive bearded woman was looking for. 

            "Aye.  Well then.  What d'ya need me ta do?" he said with an excitement bordering somewhere on enthusiasm and relent as he finally let all the muscles in his body relax into one heap on the bed.  

            Without missing a beat, Gammadimms felt the need to pursue the objective before Piran felt the need to change his mind.

            "Excellent.  I need you to meet me outside the base of the mountain.  There, you will be provided with armor, a weapon, and a pack of essentials… and other necessities.  From there, you will ride southeast where you will meet a man by the name of Færlin.  You will know him.  You must speak with him.  Let him know that I have sent you to his aid.  For now, young dwarf, do not hesitate to rest.  For you will be longing for it in the near future.  You have three hours."  She punctuated her request with a smile and a head nod, signifying she had finished.  She turned and walked out, leaving Piran to sit there wondering what the hell just happened, who the hell Gammadimms really is, and just what the hell was going on.

            Piran did just that.  "Armor?  Weapons?  Other necessities?" he pondered.  "Aye.  Well.  I s'pose if I'm ta die, it best be in the name of battle and honor."  His thought found their way trickling into cynicism.  "Rest, she says.  Three hours ta rest before I apparently am ta meet me doom.  Lovely."

            He laid back on the bed and thought about what was to come; but rest, he did no such thing.

            Færlin's army had managed to begin pushing the opponents northwest, briefly allowing for a sense of confidence.  Their will had returned to them until the Bælinites gained the opportunity to overtake them.  The Bælinites moved around Færlin and his troops until they had them surrounded.  The only way out was through the weakest side, which, of course, happened to be the side facing Thylandrill.  Færlin ordered the troops into a block formation, with the pikemen at the four edges of the group, backs facing one another.  They began to fight their way out of the opposing forces.  The smell of smoke, burning flesh, boiling blood, and stirred soil mixed together to form a type of choking stench almost unbearable.  It was obvious that both sides were reaching exhaustion.  Many would fall merely by trying to stand up.  Both sides, however, were also unrelenting, seeing to it that the final body to fall would be that of the opponent.  Without hesitation, Færlin lifted his sword and with powerful dictation, uttered a slight incantation.  His sword glistened briefly.  He stepped into the middle of his men and made a second declaration.  The men, suddenly gaining strength and stamina, began fighting with an almost unstoppable precision.  Færlin wasn't one to use the powers granted to him by Bevan unless absolutely necessary.  His troops now numbered approximately thirty, while the Bælinites were sitting around ninety to a hundred.  It was difficult to tell through the haze of smoke and continuous movement.  No matter what the actual odds, something had to be done.

            His voice boomed across the battlefield, even making the flames hesitate for a moment.  "BEVAN!  I CALL TO YOU!  IN YOUR HONOUR AND STRENGTH, DO WE SO FIGHT!  IN YOUR NAME DO WE BATTLE TO PROTECT WHAT IS YOURS!  TODAY, IN GLORY AND TRIUMPH OR IN DEATH DO WE FIGHT!  ASSIST US!"  His voice echoed through the trees and into the clouds where its thunder rattled the heavens.  Within moments, it began to rain; not just rain, but rather pour down in sheets, extinguishing the fires and even the oil soaked torches held in the Bælinites' hands.  The wind began to stir to an unbelievable strength.  The ground began to shake.  In a single flash of lightning, Færlin caught something not so far in the distance.  Before Færlin could thank him, Bevan lifted his hands to the air and threw them forward, casting all warriors, including Færlin away from each other. 

            "In my name?" he queried forcefully.  "My name is not for fighting.  Protect in my name.  Love in my name.  Help in my name.  But FIGHT in your own.  The honor of fighting, of battle, is that of yourself.  I am a god of warriors.  I am not a god of fighters.  Your request, i will grant this once.  Your duty, however, i will remind you of.  Do NOT disregard your purpose in my name."

            Bevan reached behind him and wielded a sword seemingly almost of absolute power channeled into a single point in space.  He lifted the sword above him where it almost hovered.  Færlin was sure that if he let go, it would not move, would not fall until it was commanded to do so.  After a moment, Bevan released the sword with a fury and strength in his voice that could only be described as godlike.  The sword, with immense speed and unpredictability, found its way into the hearts of every Bælinite within moments and then hovered above Færlin awaiting the next command.

            "Your heart is true, Færlin," began Bevan, "and your sword is strong.  Your power in battle and your skills of leadership are great.  But you have yet to understand fully the ways of the warrior.  Your goal should not be to defeat your opponents.  Your purpose is to make them defeat themselves.  A great warrior fights little, but battles constantly.  His heart and his mind work together to allow for victory, but not to be victorious.  You have fought well and bravely.  And so have your men.  Now you must learn to be as brave outside of battle.  Your purpose is coming.  Your journey is beginning." 

            Bevan's words trailed off as his figure dissipated.  The sword which was hanging ever so delicately above Færlin's head, fell rather mundanely to his feet and now appeared to be merely an ornate sword.  There were small jewels circumventing the pummel, which itself appeared as a symbol of a hoof.  The hilt was absolute black.  Etched on the hilt in mithril and in very ornate lettering was "Færlin."  The blade itself, although looking as an ordinary great sword, had a slight blue-green tinge to it.  Færlin bent down to pick it up.  As he touched it, a surge of strength ran through him.  As he turned it over, etched on the other side of the blade, covering the entirety of the blade, were characters unknown to him.  He stared into his reflection in the blade, puzzled and as frightened as he was honored.  "What now?" he thought. 

            Just as the sword fell, so too did the troops, finally allowing themselves the chance to rest.  The mud actually felt good, cool upon their flesh.  The rain and wind had stopped and the fires were doused.  One of the men began slowly and painfully foraging wood for a fire.  Another three or so managed to gain the strength to get up and start looting the corpses that surrounded them.  A few others went off to find some food.  When Færlin was done contemplating the situation, he began setting up a camp.  For the first time in weeks, the men would have a comfortable rest without fear of intruders.  For the first time in weeks, Færlin could dream.


	4. A Woman Scorned

_Hmmm… it's about that time when things start happening.  Please enjoy and feel free to leave an honest helpful review._

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**C H A P T E R   IV**

**_A Woman Scorned_**

            It was nearly mid-afternoon by the time Piran made his way to the gate at the base of the mountain.  His heart was pounding with anxiety, but there was a certain determination about his stride.  Never before had he felt as important and as needed as he did at that moment.  As promised, Gammadimms awaited his arrival.  She was dressed in a purple robe that seemed to shimmer from somewhere within its folds.  To her right was a dwarven armor smith by the name of Larrimore.  Piran knew him well.  There were many a late night in the tavern between them; many a discussion of the day's toils between them.  Today, however, Larrimore did not speak.  In fact, he barely looked at Piran, but rather kept his head low with an uncertainty in his expression that only signified a preemptive sorrow.  Piran's heart beat rapidly for other reasons now.  Beside Larrimore lay the armor, glinting in the sun.  It was beautifully ornate.  It was apparent to Piran that much work and the finest metals had gone into its making.  Etched into the front and inlaid with gold was the crest of Piran's family; a battle axe crossing an axe-pick.  The axe signified victory in arms; the pick, the family's heritage.  The crossing of the two was representative of the need to defend and protect.  Just above their intersection was the image of a barren tree, which was symbolic of the remembrance of those who had died in honor.  And above the tree were three rays.  One was the light to hope.  The second was the light to action.  And the third was the light to victory.  And finally, beneath the intersection of the axe and pick, was the image of a single flame; the spirit that sparks and ignites the other elements.  It was this flame that brought Piran here.  For the first time, he was aware of and understood the meaning of all these elements.  Arching above the crest was his name in beautiful dwarven script.  The helm was just as ornate in its trim, edged in gold. 

            "It's beautiful." He said as Larrimore picked up the armor and began suiting Piran.  

            Larrimore said nothing, but continued fitting Piran into his new flesh.  Piran, attempting to break the ice commented, "It's a little heavy."  Again, however, there was silence. 

            Piran began to feel a bit uncomfortable, both from the armor and this new friend whom he had known for years as a somewhat boisterous bastard with not much more than a wit about him.  Piran said nothing.

            Larrimore was about to place the helm on Piran when Piran's hand grasped his arm and brought it down. 

            "Thank you.  Brother." He said.

            "Tis my duty to see you fit for battle, brother.  But rather my desire to see you fit for home.  There is no more honor in denying one's duty as there is in letting a friend die.  But we should not both be dishonored.  You, my friend, will forever honor this, our home."  Piran looked into Larrimore's eyes for a moment and then embraced him.

            "And you will be the protector of the protector."  He whispered.  "That makes you more 'onorable than any warrior."  Piran's words formed a slight smile on Larrimores lips.

            "Thank you." He whispered back.

            "Now then."  Said Piran while comfortingly pulling Larrimore to a straight posture.  "Enough o' this mushy stuff.  I want me new clothes.  Finish me up, lad."  Larrimore did so.

            "Your sword, brave dwarf."  Said Gammadimms, finally as she held it to Piran handle first.  "You will find none better in your travels."

            "What are ya, daft?  It's an axe, ya cheeky dwarf."  Upon inspection, he found himself adding, "And a nice one at that.  Strong steel.  Well made handle."  He took the axe from her and gave it a couple swings.  "Nice balance." He added as he looked at her with a glint in his eye.  Gammadimms smiled and reached for the axe.

            "If I may?" she asked. 

            Piran handed the axe back to her.  She grabbed the handle with her left hand and the ball pummel with her right and pulled.  From the handle came a small thin blade.  The blade was about two feet long and approximately half an inch wide, and just as beautifully ornate as the axe and armor that matched it.  It was made out of a silver/steel mesh that caused a prismatic effect as it bent the light of the sun.  Gammadimms smiled at Piran. 

            "And a sword." She added smugly and returned the blade to its home before handing the axe back to Piran.  "You will find that the balance will not be affected even when the blade is withdrawn from its casing."

            "Aye.  Aye."  He said astonished.  "Aye.  Indeed.  A sword indeed."

            Piran carefully placed the axe into a steel ring about waist height on his armor.  The axe was held rather primitively considering the intricacies of every other portion of the armor, but Piran didn't notice.  And to him, these were the best gifts ever given a dwarf.  After a moment, he turned back to Larrimore who was still rather quiet and sulky.  "Maybe the second best." He thought.  Piran lifted his amulet from around his neck.  The amulet was a copy of the same crest on his armor.  He grabbed Larrimore's hand and placed the amulet and chain into it.

            "You are me brother, Larrimore." He said.  "Although our blood may not be of the same parents, you are me family.  And as long as I 'ave family, I 'ave life.  Fear not this day, brother.  For this is a day of vict'ry.  Be proud in what you 'ave done 'ere.  And know that I will be fore'er proud of this moment." 

            Larrimore looked up into Piran's eyes and gave another slight smile as to say, "Thank you."  He placed a hand on Piran's shoulder, gave a nod and a proud smile, and retreated to his armory. 

            Gammadimms reached down and lifted a small sack.  "In this, you will find a week's rations, some ale, rope, a few potions to keep your health, and finally, about four-hundred pieces of gold.  I know it isn't much, but it should be enough to aid you where you need it.  Besides, it is best that since you must hurry, you carry as little as necessary.  You must go now.  I will aid you that you do not grow tired so soon.  But do not alter direction or underestimate the necessity of your haste.  May the paths be clear for you."  She leaned forward and kissed him gently on his forehead.  "Safe travels, Piran."

            Piran could do nothing but smile and look into her eyes for a few brief seconds as they squinted from the sun before he brushed past her and began his journey southeast.  He had never found his purpose in the shafts.  Perhaps he could find it in the wild.

            "Piran."  She called after him.  He turned.  "Thank you."  She finished with a slight incantation and vanished, leaving no trace other than the echo of her words.  Piran felt a surge of strength run through him as he turned and continued on.

            Although the moon shone brightly, the darkness of the woods began to close in around Kira.  It wasn't that she minded.  She was used to the dark woods at night.  Often would she find herself sneaking off to greet them while her father was busy doing whatever it was he did when he wasn't with her.  This was a different kind of darkness.  This was more of an emotional darkness; one she couldn't see through.  Her eyes told her the path, but her heart was deceptive tonight.  All she could tell was that something was different.  The trees were silent.

            "Come on Fleda.  Just a little further.  He can't be too far ahead now."  She said to reassure herself more than her equine companion. 

            She could tell, however, that Fleda felt it too.  Beyond the silence of the trees, the air was completely still; an odd phenomenon, being this close to the sea.  She and Fleda continued steadily on for a few hundred yards before they came to a fork in the path.  Fleda stopped.  The scent led both ways.  And so did the tracks.  On neither path did the tracks lead back. 

            "Well.  This is different."  She thought.  She bent down to Fleda's ear, "Right or left?"  Fleda stood motionless.  "Right you are, then."  She said as she began to lead Fleda directly up the middle into the thick of the woods.  "No better way to know than to look in both directions." She mumbled to herself. 

            It was slow travel through the dense overgrowth, but Fleda managed her way somewhat efficiently as her hooves found their mark on every stick, rock, and mud hole in the area.  Fleda's head rose quickly and then back down.

            "Oh come, Fleda.  There is no need for that."  Fleda stopped and whipped her head around.  Kira got the distinct impression that her loving companion had just asked her if she wanted to get off and walk.  "Fair enough." She said.  They were about to continue on when Fleda's ears turned forward, twitched back, and then turned forward again.  She stood perfectly still. 

            It took a moment before Kira was aware of the movement ahead.  "That must be fa—" she began.  "No."  She thought.  "That is not him." 

            The figure was battling its way through the brush, without any desire of being inconspicuous.  The air began to chill slightly, sending an unwanted shiver into the back of Kira's neck.  The shadow ahead of them continued its trek, plowing through the overgrowth.  It was obviously unaware of Kira's presence. 

            "Wait here."  She whispered to Fleda. 

            Kira slowly dismounted and walked silently through the woods toward the figure which was now caught in some briars.  Kira could tell from the verbal quality and use of vocabulary somewhat similar to that used when getting stepped on by a horse who refused to lift its hoof, that the figure was human.  Considering the build and depth of voice, it was a human male. 

            "Son of a—  What the hell is--  SHIT!"  he exclaimed as a thorn somehow found its way into a place only imaginable. 

            Kira figured it was probably safe to let herself be recognized, but wasn't willing to take the chance.  So she did the next best thing.

            A voice entered the man's ears in an echoing whisper as though the wind had placed it there.  But there was no wind.  "Such language.  Unbefitting of a gentleman."  The man stopped silent. 

            "Who's there?"  he finally said frightened.

            "Who?  What?  Where?"  said the voice.  Kira had always been fond of toying with the minds of man or at least the idea of it.  Being that she had never actually met one, she never got her chance.  Well, here was her chance trapped helpless in a net of thorn bushes and vines.

            "You.  There."

            The voice let out a whispered chuckle which, at any other time would sound somewhat of childish innocence, but to the entangled sap, it was more of the maniacal sort.  It didn't help that the laughter, or the voice for that matter, didn't come from any specific direction.

            "Come out and face me!"  declared the man with an obvious bravado.  "I am a warrior of Bælin.  Confront me if you dare threaten."

            Kira froze.  Her thoughts darkened, "Bælin?  This close to Thylandrill?  This is not good.  So that's why father ordered an immediate arms."

            "FATHER!" she cried out without realizing it.

            At Kira's cry, the man pinpointed her direction and was staring directly at her. "Father?!" said the man.  "I've no children and had I such, I'd skin you for a folly being out here.  Come and face me and we shall discuss your burial after my satisfaction, wretched whore."

            Kira stepped from behind a tree.  "I'd as soon be your whore as your sword be your saviour."

            "And thus has it been so.  And so to me shall you be a whore."

            "Has it been so thus?" she said mocking his tone.  "But not this time."  She uttered in half-whisper a phrase unintelligible by the man.

            "We shall see about that young," he spat, "maiden.  Your very presence scorns the existence of men."  As he started his movement toward her through the briars, with his sword outstretched, they, in turn, began moving, entangling him and digging their thorns deep into his flesh.  One found its way around his neck where it held him tight.  Another reached its destination around his wrist, forcing him to release his sword.  There were many pinning holding him at the waist, legs and chest.  It was at this point he realized her previous incantation and Kira's race.  This alone made his blood boil.  Kira approached him whistling a cheery made-up song. 

            "An elf!"  He scoffed.  "I should have expected such a vile presence."

            "You have a choice." She said smiling as she approached, ignoring his words.  "Go back to wherever it is you came from, and tell everyone you lost a battle to a whore in the woods, or I can kill you now."  By the time she had finished her phrase, there was a venom in her voice she had never before encountered. 

            "You may kill me now, for I may die from a sorceress whore, but to one I will never submit."  He struggled, forcing the thorns to dig deeper.  The blood was now trickling down the stems.  The man let out a slight groan, but forced himself to stop just as suddenly. 

            "Tell me your name."  Said Kira.

            "With pride."  Said the man as he spat at her.  "My name is Isidore, warrior of Bælin, son of Faltin." 

            "I hope all of Bælin's warriors are as powerful as you, son of Faltin."  Said Kira wiping the spittle from her brow.  "Now, tell me, Isidore, how pleased do you think Bælin will be that you have been defeated in the deep dark woods by a poor defenseless maiden such as myself?  And an elf, no less."

            "I do not stand down to you. I do not fear you.  You will be sought."  He paused.  "You will be destroyed."

            Kira smirked.  "Perhaps."  She paused.  "Now, you requested I kill you here?"

            "If you are so willed, but I see it not in you.  You've not the strength to carry out such acts."  Kira smirked again. 

            "No?" she said as she bent down and picked up his sword.  She gave a loud whistle and Fleda walked up to her.  She lifted herself atop Fleda and smiled wide down at the man.  "Perhaps.  Then again, perhaps I do.  Enjoy your stay.  It is possible you will be found, but highly unlikely."  She rode past the man, leaving him entangled in the briars which began to drag him under the soil. 


	5. abandonment

This story is hereby abandoned due to lack of interest. Thank you all who took a moment to read it.


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